


Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends

by NothingSoDivine



Series: Sxyvaan [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: :), Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Bulges and Nooks, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Floor Sex, Inspired by Music, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Music Kink, Nook Eating, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Sex to Music, Tags Are Fun, Tentabulges, Voice Kink, WUZZLES!, Xeno, Xenophilia, cheers everyone, isn't it ironic that the acronym of the phrase Explicit Sexual Content is or would be ESC?, musical Dave, musical Karkat, never mind, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat always did love music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not using my multiple-orgasm troll headcanon for this series, I guess? I'll probably explain why through an expository passage in In Which the Author Finds Excuses, Most of Which are Pathetic, for Large Expository Worldbuilding Passages, All of Which are Mandatory for the Reader's Comprehension of This Alternate Universe (IWTAFEMWPLEWPAWMRCTAU). (Nobody is going to remember that acronym. Why am I even bothering.)

Karkat always did love music.

The emerald carpet's plush under his back - you know, you've ~~gotten~~ laid on it ~~~~many times. He's moved the coffee table into the doorway, like he always does when he does this.

The next song comes on. It's a more cheerful one - less dramatic than a lot of the songs on that album. It's not your favourite, but you like it well enough. You take off your shades, setting them down on the displaced coffee table.

He's lying spread-eagled on the floor, soaking up the sound pulsing from the speakers around the room. You managed to finish the sound system you were setting up to play all through the house - you spent all your spare time on it, and okay, it took a lot more work than you'd originally expected - but Karkat doesn't know about that yet; surprisingly, but thankfully, as it's his birthday present. For now, he's making do with the surround sound here in the living room, which is a damn good system, since you set it up yourself. He loves it. You know he does. You know him.

He looks gorgeous like this. His eyes are closed, face free of the tension it holds during the day. His entire body is just limp, and you know from experience that he'd be willing to let you do literally anything you wanted to him. (You've discussed it, and there is nothing you would ever actually want to do to him that he wouldn't allow in his current state - anything he doesn't want you to do you wouldn't want to do anyways.) You've seen him get like this many times before - sometimes performing puts him in a similar state, but never as much as this. Listening, just listening, to music he didn't write is enough to get him to this point where he's open and wanting, but too happy just listening to actively seek relief from the arousal you know it causes him.

He loves music, more than anyone you've ever met. You'd never even heard of anyone having a music kink until you saw Karkat once, spread out on your apartment floor, taking advantage of your sound system to do what he's doing now - lying on the floor, getting high on music and arousal. When you'd confronted him about it, interrupting his reverie with a sharp (though not impolite) "What the fuck are you doing?", he'd just opened his eyes halfway and given you this _look_ , like he was so high with hormones or pheromones or whatever that he honestly didn't care about anything in the world. You'd never gotten a boner so fast in your life.

Karkat smiles. _Come in, Dave,_ he mouths silently. _Nice of you to join me._

He heard you come in. Of course he heard you come in. He's got troll hearing.

How long have you been standing here, admiring him? The song's almost over: _How I wish I’d spoken up/Or we’d be carried in the reign of love._ Appropriate.

Six steps take you to his side, and you kneel slowly, one leg between his. He doesn't open his eyes. He trusts you.

The song ends, and just as the next begins, you slip your hands under his shirt. When you slide it up over his skin, he's warm under your hands. He arches up towards you, arms hanging limp, and you pull the shirt off over his head before he writhes back down onto the carpet. (He is damn flexible, and you are more than appreciative of that.)

Chris Martin's voice always makes you shiver, especially in this song. This one is a mutual favourite - Karkat with his music kink, you with your voice kink. You lean down and get your mouth on Karkat's collarbone.

He doesn't make a sound - that's what always gets you about this: he's so careful not to interrupt the music, and so, in return, are you, silently tracing a wet path from his collarbone to his neck, down his chest, and back again. He doesn't always let you do this - he complains about the spit - and you always seize an opportunity to satisfy your burning need to get your tongue all over him. You reach for his jeans. He lets you. Of course he does. He always does.

The second you get his jeans off him, you're kneeling between his legs, mouth already at his slick nook. His bulge lashes in your hair. You're so glad you took off your shades. Karkat's breathing shakily, but in time with the music, as always, and you know he's already _so close_. You grin against him as you hook both his legs over your shoulders and plunge your tongue into him.

You bring him to a shivering, silent dry orgasm just as the song ends - just like you knew you would, just as you always do. It still amazes you how silent he can be when he cares, though honestly you're not sure if he _does_ care, whether he does it on purpose. Maybe it's a side effect of the high he gets from the music - he's so obsessed with the sound that his voice won't function, no matter how much he may try and make it. You don't know, just like you don't know why he always comes dry when you catch him like this. All you know is it's what always happens, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You know his refractory period when he's like this is significantly shorter than usual. You also know that it's almost exactly the length of the next song. You let him bask in his afterglow, stripping your clothes off and fumbling under the couch for the sound system remote control. As the song ends, you move back over him.

He doesn't like the same thing twice, so you muffle the temptation for an encore. You lick his bottom lip, and he responds instantly, tracing your tongue with his own, letting your tongues fuck languidly for several bars before you actually bother to seal your lips together. The percussion echoes your heartbeat. You pulse up the volume as the strings swell.

Karkat Vantas is supple beneath you, putty in your hands. You trace every inch of him with your calloused fingertips - rough from the strings, but you know he doesn't mind. His skin is silky-warm, soft and _god_ you want to lick him again, but you suck on his tongue and trace his hipbones with your thumbs and content yourself with that, because that's what he needs right now. That reminder brings your argument crashing down like pillars of salt and pillars of sand.

His tongue is slick and hot against yours, long and a little rough. His tooth nicks your lip, drawing blood, but he draws your lip into his mouth and you have _no complaints_ as he sucks the blood out. You taste it on his tongue. It brings the world back into focus for a second before you sink back into Karkat's mouth and your mouth and the music.

He's limp except for his mouth. You tilt your head to get a better angle, kiss him harder. The song's ending before you notice, and you pull back, letting the kiss linger by virtue of drawing Karkat's lip back as you pull away.

You know this album well. Nearly forty seconds you spend, lips hovering closer and closer to rejoining Karkat's. You can feel the heat from his lips against yours, even though they're not touching. Your mouth feels far too empty.

You wait to kiss him just as the voice joins the song; a beat later, as the piano begins, you slip two fingers into his nook. He undulates beneath you. You count. One verse; four short lines:

_Was a long and dark December;_  
_From the rooftops, I remember_  
_There was snow,  
White snow._

Three lines through, you spread your fingers. He flinches; his breath catches. You keep going, in time with the music.

Fingers out; you slide into him in time with the percussion. He sucks in a sharp breath. You allow yourself a grin. Flawless. You wait; listen to him breathe, part of the music itself. You give him four lines. It's enough.

His breathing doesn't slow, but it lightens; you start moving. You couldn't break rhythm if you tried. Not with this song. Not with the bass pounding into your body, pulsing in your fingertips, harsh and caustic and as bleak as a London December.

You come hard, at exactly the same time he does; he clenches around you and you forget how to breathe. The last verse is sweet and simple, and you prop yourself up on your elbows and try to remember how your lungs function. Karkat's shuddering beneath you, and the two of you stay there, breathing, as the song changes.

It's an easy song, lilting and bright; the perfect recovery song. Eventually, you pull out, but you don't move away. You stay, propped on your elbows over Karkat, watching his expression slowly slip from trance-like to semi-conscious to awake but unwilling to move.

When the song changes once again, he smiles. His arms are still jumbled limply above his head; he stretches them languidly, arching his back until your chests press together.

_And don't worry._

He stops stretching and just lies there, fully stretched out, fingers tapping the beat against the wooden floor. His fingertips only just reach off the edge of the carpet; his nails click on the varnish.

Lazily, languorously, he opens his eyes and smiles up at you.

* * *

_And, in the end,_  
_We lie awake_  
_And we dream of making our escape._

**Author's Note:**

> The album: Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, by Coldplay (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cWZHBgF90MA). I showed my matesprit the song "Yes" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyraA41XuKg) and their first reaction was "Oh my god, Dave and Karkat need to fuck to that song."  
> Seriously? I mean, that was my thought too, but it wasn't my _first_ thought.


End file.
